


Drugged

by NeonGriffon



Category: Kick-Ass (2010)
Genre: Drugged!fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonGriffon/pseuds/NeonGriffon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is accidental overdose and then there is malicious overdose. And from one betrayal, another relationship rises. Or, at least...something that might be considered a relationship....if one were drugged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted a couple of years ago on another site but the emergence of the second movie has prompted me to expand upon it. I honestly love this fandom and coming back to these stories felt like coming home and, well, that just sounds strange...hmmm...  
> So here! This is written purely for the (admittedly small) group of fans that  
> 1) cocked their heads and said "there is definitely *something* there between Chris and Dave"  
> 2) love the hurt/comfort genre  
> I realize this is not the norm when it comes to Kick Ass fics, but this is not written for them. It is written for us, the freaks that enjoy seeing Chris pining after Dave. Oh, and in the process getting hurt just a little (or a lot).

The room was quiet. Alarmingly so, actually. Somewhere down the hall, a clock was ticking. From the sound of it, a big clock. Grandfather, most likely. Each second down marked by the fantastically precise tick or tock, sounding not entirely unlike an enemy cocking a gun. "I wonder if that's why he bought it," Dave found himself unable to control this thought as it bubbled up from somewhere in his head, entirely inappropriate seeing as he actually was staring down the barrel of a gun. 'Great. I'm about to die and my head is providing commentary. It's like I'm watching the fucking director's cut of my death.'

The decision to commandeer entry into the nest of the enemy; AKA the D'Amico estate, had all been Hit Girl's. Not that Dave hadn't felt a sense of obligation to lend a hand, what with the tragedy that had befallen Big Daddy back at the warehouse, he just didn't see himself being that much of a help. When it came down to it, however, and with his inadequacies as a fighter aside, surprisingly he had indeed been incredibly helpful. The assistance of a jet pack equipped with rotary multi-barreled guns didn't hurt. 

All enemies obliterated, with the exception of the kingpin himself and his son, there were now only four people alive in the entire building. Hit Girl was currently in the middle of a fight to the death with Frank D'Amico, somewhere in the posh office beyond the large doors. And Dave? Dave was presently standing stock still in a room whose walls were covered with hanging samurai swords, facing the boy who, up until earlier that evening, he had considered a friend. 

"I'm gonna do it," Red Mist was threatening, his outstretched arm shaking slightly from what had to be either the weight of the gun or the weight of his impending action. "I mean...I'm sorry, you know. I know you didn't have anything to do with all the drug busts, and the murdering of my dad's men and everything. Well...except for the guys you killed tonight." He seemed to be stalling. Every awkward sentence uttered seemed to be there for the sole purpose of buying time. Gathering the courage to pull the trigger. He looked afraid. Unsure. 

"Do you really want to do this?" Dave's words sounded like whimpers in his own head. It was a risky question, but judging by the shorter boy's generally uneasy demeanor, maybe it was worth asking. 

"I...um...of course I do," Red Mist stuttered, practically losing his composure completely for a brief second before shifting his weight to the other leg and faking another confident pose. Stretching his arm even more, he pointed the gun even closer to Dave's forehead. "I'm gonna do it," he repeated hesitantly. It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than issue a threat.

"No. You're not." Frank stepped into the room, the look on his face unreadable. Leaving the door open as he strolled in, his gaze never left the boy holding the gun. 

"I was just about to, right before you came in," Chris tried to explain, his eyes wide.

"Oh yeah?" Frank looked amused. "Then come on, entertain me!" He gestured toward the gun and then the boy in the green wetsuit. There was a long pause. Red Mist was practically hyperventilating at this point, the conflict in his mind was clearly apparent. There was a look in his eyes of almost perfect horror. "That's what I thought." Frank let out a little laugh, devoid of any actual humor. He shifted his gaze from Chris to Dave. "You see, contrary to any other belief, my son is a fuck up. A complete and utter fuck up. When it comes down to it all he ever wanted with this job was to play dress up and pretend like he was a character in one of those piece-of-shit comic books he reads. Which seems fitting for a fucking fairy, don't you think?"

"Wait, what?" Red Mist gasped, almost dropping his gun. 

"Don't play innocent. You think your own father can't figure out his son is as queer as a pink pony? I mean, hell, don't try to convince me that all the longing looks you've been giving this guy for the last five minutes don't actually mean anything. You wanted this job for one reason, and that reason was to get in his pants. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Laughing nervously, Red Mist felt a new surge of dread rise up in his chest. Trying to assuage the situation, "he's just joking," Red Mist reassured the green clad boy facing him. That look of fear was still wholly unbroken in those eyes smeared with black makeup. Dave wondered if the panicky look featured on Red Mist's face was, in fact, a dead giveaway that D'Amico's suspicions were correct. Come to think of it, Red Mist had been surprisingly enthusiastic about being Kick-Ass's sidekick. 

Frank's face suddenly pulled up into a wide grin. "Don't look so scared, I'm fucking with you." He held out his right arm, hand open as if inviting a hand shake. "Give me the gun."

A blanket of relief clearly settling over the boy in the leather costume, Red Mist turned and started to hand it over but then paused. "I still don't think that we need to kill him though. Couldn't we just work out some kind of a deal or something?"

The angry voice of a young girl suddenly cried out from beyond the door. Hit Girl. "I'd rather dunk my face in acid than make a deal with either of you cocksuckers!" Dave breathed a sigh of relief that his cohort was still alive. Not that he doubted her skill, she had just been so quiet up until now. 

Frank rubbed his eyes in frustration. "Well, that's just fine sweetheart because the deal never included you." Suddenly snatching the gun from Red Mist's hand, he hastily began walking toward the door in which Hit Girl resided on the other side. "Stay there!" he ordered the two boys behind him. 

"He's gonna kill her!" Dave made a move to run after him but Red Mist grabbed his arm tightly in both hands. 

"Dude! He'll shoot you!"

"I'm not just going to stand here while this happens!" Dave shrieked. He tried to pull forward despite the other boy desperately struggling to hold him back. He only made it a few steps forward before Frank emerged from beyond the door, dragging a kitchen chair behind him upon which a cursing and spitting Hit Girl was tied. She thrashed about, the look on her face one of pure hatred. The chair screeched across the wood floor until Frank set it to rest in the corner of the room. He pointed the gun at her face as he shot a cold look at Dave.

"I'm done playing games. You. Go sit down in the other corner like a good little superhero or I'm going to put a bullet in her forehead so fast that it will make the room spin."

"Ok, ok," Kick-Ass put his hands up in surrender, pulling out of Red Mist's tight grip and finding a spot on the floor near another corner. Pulling his legs toward him Indian style, his brain raced trying to find a way to get himself and his smaller companion out of this situation. Nothing was coming to mind. 

Satisfied that both enemies were in place, Frank relaxed, taking a few steps backward toward a cabinet almost hidden in the wooden paneling of the room. Opening the cabinet, he pulled out a bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses. "That's how you deal with people who try to fuck with you. No making deals. Just making them do what you want." He began to pour the Scotch into one of the glass receptacles. "And then blowing their brains out, of course."

"Even if one of them doesn't deserve it?" Red Mist squeaked.

Frank snorted. "Are you talking about the guy who's responsible for killing almost everyone in our living room with a weaponized jet pack?" 

The boy in the red leather had no retort. He glanced back at Dave with a worried look. "Look," Frank said as he carried a overfilled glass over to his son. "Have a drink, and we'll talk about this like civilized people." He shoved the glass into Red Mist's hand, a splash of liquor spilling out and falling to the floor below. 

Red Mist took a sip of the drink and quickly spit it out, a look of disgust covering his face. "Is this pure alcohol, no mixer or anything?" 

"Scotch is supposed to be served straight. Just drink it and stop whining." Frank was regarding him with a strange look on his face. Almost expressionless. Not wanting to come across as any more gay than he obviously already had been, Red Mist sighed and held his breath, trying to down as much of the horrible drink as he could without tasting it. He was only partially successful. Luckily his dad didn't seem to notice his pained expression and slight cough at the end. God, this stuff was terrible. "I know you want to be my successor. To learn how to do what I do, right?" Frank had turned away as he talked, his voice eerily distant.

"Yeah, I do," Red Mist coughed, more phlegm in his voice than he would have cared for. He held his breath again and downed the rest of the drink. 

"But of course that means you have to make hard decisions. Decisions like shooting people that may or may not deserve it. You get me?" The mobster turned around, suddenly replacing the empty glass in Red Mist's hands with the revolver. "I'm going to give you another chance to reconsider what you want to do."

Red Mist peered down at the gun. The weight of it was considerable. Heavier than a person might think. Funny, that. He wanted to turn around and look at Kick-Ass again. See if the horrified expression that usually accompanied him was still pinned to his face. He hoped it was. There was something exhilarating about having so much control, so much power, over someone else. Especially that boy in the green costume. Power meant he could make him do anything. Anything. And...wow, he was clearly already drunk. He laughed to himself for no reason in particular.

"Here you go," his dad's voice unexpectedly sounded in his right ear. Turning around, he was confronted with another drink.

"Oh, awesome," Red Mist slurred. "Cause it tastes so good." The sarcasm wasn't lost on his father, but Frank didn't really seem to be listening anyway. Red Mist grabbed it and decided that it was at least replacing his fear with confidence. And fun dizzy thoughts like the prospect of making Kick-Ass do whatever he wanted, like put his tongue...

"You see," Frank suddenly started up again. "With great power comes.." he stopped, trying to find the right words.

"Great responsibility!" interjected Red Mist excitedly, coughing up liquid remnants of Scotch.

"Yes," Frank responded, narrowing his eyebrows. "That."

"Spiderman's so fucking cool." Red Mist happily declared, nodding his head in great amusement as he took another gulp. At this point being incredibly drunk, he barely noticed Frank pulling the gun away from his loose grip. 

"Which is why I'm going to have to kill you."

Red Mist laughed, too inebriated to grasp the situation at first. He downed the rest of the drink without even holding his breath. It burned going down, but the dizzy sensation that followed was worth it. He stood there for a second, slowly tilting back and forth before his father's sentence finally sunk in. "You're goingtowha?"

"Yeah," Frank said with a surprising lack of concern in his voice. "That thing I said before, about you being a fuck-up with a disturbing penchant for other boys? If the one thing wasn't bad enough, the other is. I gave you your chance. Multiple chances, actually. You don't have it in you to run this business."

His costume-clad son just stood there, attempting to grasp the situation but feeling his mind refusing to fully take it all in. He gripped the glass with both hands, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. Somewhere behind him, Hit Girl was giggling. He focused on the shiny metal of the gun in his father's hand. "You're gonna shoo me?" his voice was too slurred to confirm the panic rising in his chest.

Frank gave Red Mist an impersonal pat on the shoulder. "No. I thought that it would be more appropriate to slip a shitload of roofies in your drink. I got a shipment of Rohypnol in the other day and though...huh, what better way to off my fuck-up of a son than to slip him an overdose of the date rape drug. You know, since you seem to be so dead set on being a girl."

"What the hell?" Kick-Ass was exclaiming from his spot in the corner, but Red Mist couldn't even hear him. He just stared up at the man who he had practically worshiped since he was too young to remember and tried to wrap his mind around what was happening. The world was slowing to a stop.

"And just in case..." Frank was pulling a small vial out of his pocket, palming the glass tube protectively. Pulling his son into him, he gave him one last tight embrace before suddenly piercing the needle into the side of the boy's neck. "Here's to make sure it takes."

Yelping in pain, Red Mist pulled back, but not before the majority of the clear fluid had been plunged into his body. "Dad? " Red Mist's voice was small and confused, one word begging for an answer that could not come. The only response was a guttural sound as a 5 inch blade suddenly embedded itself in Frank D'Amico's neck. A gush of blood erupted forth like lava from a volcano as he went tumbling forward, crashing onto the floor. 

"You're a really fucked up person." Hit Girl suddenly appeared beside Red Mist, having taken advantage of Frank being distracted to work her way free of the ropes holding her captive. She kicked Frank's crumpled body for good measure. "And that's coming from me."


	2. Chapter 2

"You...you killed him." Red Mist stared down at the sprawled figure before his feet, his voice sounding oddly sober despite the booze and drugs coursing through his system. His father's hands were still slowly grasping the air, opening and closing as if in a last attempt at handling an invisible weapon. After a few seconds, however, the action stopped. The eyes that now stared eerily out into nothingness were as lifeless as the pool of red collecting under his neck.

"Yeah, well he killed you first. You just haven't fallen over yet," Hit Girl scowled. When she spoke to him, her eyes glowed with a silent rage that showed up on her face even more than the multiple purple bruises forming all over her skin. She knelt down over the body of the mobster, examining her work. Putting a hand on the handle of her weapon sheathed in Frank's neck, she pulled. The knife slid out from under dead skin, an even more abundant stream of blood flooding out. Hesitating for a second, her expression took on a look of pure fury and she rammed it back into another part of his neck. "That's for my dad, fuckhead."

The expanding blood puddle began to creep toward Red Mist's boots and he took a hurried step backwards, almost toppling over in the process. Catching himself before he crashed to the floor, he held back the urge to vomit. 

A silent observer from the corner, Dave was also trying hard not to be sick. It wasn't getting any easier watching people get violently killed in front of him. He gathered as much stamina as he could and slowly stood up, his legs wobbling. "Now what?" his voice cracked.

Hit Girl looked up from her huddled position on the floor, having momentarily forgotten all about her cohort. Her eyes darted to the black and red form a few feet from her. "What do you think? Leave him to die or put him out of his misery? Personally, I'd love to repay him for shooting me in the chest." The same scowl still glued to her face, her hand hovered over her belt, trying to decide which weapon would be most appropriate for payback. 

"Hold on a second." Dave exclaimed, one outstretched hand gesturing for her to hang on. Looking over at the other boy currently dry heaving across the room, he couldn't help but feel sorry for the self-proclaimed villain. "Sure, Frank D'Amico deserved what he got, but do you really think that Red Mist deserves to die too? I mean, it kind of seems like he just got in over his head with all this."

Hit Girl was clearly not amused. "He SHOT me." 

"Yeah, I know. And I'm not condoning that at all!" For a second Dave was positive the young girl was going to hurl one of her weapons at his own person. When it was clear that her intentions; at least at the moment; were not on hurting him, he continued. "I know what it's like to get caught up in the whole superhero thing. If I had known how many people would get hurt...I don't know if I would have ever even ordered this scuba suit."

"Yeah, well. My dad's dead, partially because of him. Because for five seconds, my dad trusted him enough to let him into the base."

"And because your dad trusted me too." There was a pause that reverberated around the large wood paneled room. The clock was still ticking somewhere in the distance, but it didn't matter. Dave's last sentence was the only thing worth considering. He tried to see her expression, gauge her reaction, but her purple wig covered her bowed face like a curtain. After what seemed like an eternity, she sighed and turned to face him. "Fine. I won't stab him in the eye." Dave grinned. All things considered, it was a reasonable reply. 

At some point during their conversation, Red Mist had slumped to the floor and was sitting in a little ball, arms wrapped around his legs. He was playing a vague memory in his head of a time a few years back when he had snuck into his dad's liquor cabinet and raided at least one shot of everything contained within. He didn't remember feeling as drunk then as he did now. And shit, had he had been plastered. The room had spun back then, dramatically and horribly. Not only was the room spinning now, but it was also hopping, tumbling, and attempting to perform a barn dance. He closed his eyes and placed a hand over them in an attempt to cover up the pesky vestiges of light that crept through his eyelids. 

"If my dad had caught me covering my eyes in the middle of a fight, I would have been grounded for a year." Hit Girl's voice startled him into a more conscious state of mind and Red Mist reluctantly removed his hand. The purple-haired eleven year old was staring into his face.  
"We're ssssstill fighnnngg?" he slurred, his mind taking it's time to make connections.

She looked annoyed. "I guess not, dumbass. You can thank this guy for that. I wanted to go to town on you with one of the katanas. But he didn't want to kill you." She shrugged, disappointment in her voice. 

And then there was another set of eyes peering into his. Red Mist gulped as he realized that Kick Ass was crouched right in front of him, staring into his face. Despite his mind's current state, it was still able to wonder if the other boy had believed his dad's declaration that he had put on the costume in order to get into his pants. Part of him hoped that Kick Ass didn't believe it, the other part desperately did. 

"His eyes are really dilated," Kick Ass was saying. He looked worried. And then he was suddenly no longer in Red Mist's field of vision. The green superhero was somewhere over by the body of his dad. His dad. Red Mist didn't know if he should start crying over the fact that his dad was now a cold corpse littering the floor with blood, or punch a hole in the floor in anger over the fact that he had actually tried to murder him in a fit of disappointment. Instead of focusing on the question, he instead let himself fall back into the dizzy, fuzzy, moving world inside his head. No point in focusing on things if you didn't have to.

"There's no label on the syringe," Kick Ass was informing his purple companion. "He could have been injected with anything.

"Shouldn't we just assume it was the same thing that his dad gave him in pill form?" She asked.

"Why would he do that?"

Hit Girl stood up, clearly no longer interested in watching her opponent. "So he can't throw it up. If it's in his bloodstream, or in anything other than his digestive tract, he can't get it out. It's a good way to fuck someone up." She said it so flippantly, it was frightening. A child trained in the ways of assassination. Started so early she never even realized how strange it would seem to the casual person that she knew such things. 

Seeming to realize the same thing, Kick Ass's reply was short. "Oh."

"Of course, it could also be a million other things too. Fuck, it could be fruit roll-ups made into an injectable solution. Who knows." She was laughing now, although there was still that note of resentment in her voice. She really wanted to take her revenge out on the boy in the leather.

"Ok, ok," Kick Ass, on the other hand, seemed genuinely worried. He carried the empty syringe aimlessly with him back over to Red Mist's huddled form. "Hey man," he addressed his former side-kick, now arch nemesis. "Do you have any idea what was in this?"

Red Mist considered the question as much as he could. Which was not much. His mind felt as though it was currently on a vacation far away, riding the largest and steepest waterslide ever built. Which was to say, not very helpful. After a long pause, he shook his head slowly. His gaze stopped for a second as his head dropped for an instant, taken over by a massive wave of sedation. He felt a finger on his chin, and his head was lifted up again. He opened his eyes to see Kick Ass once again staring into his own. "Stay with me, ok? Have you taken anything else today? I need to know in case we have to take you to the ER."

Enjoying the feel of the other boy's hand touching his skin, he paused for a second before replying. When he opened his mouth to speak, it came out as just a long slur. "Jjjjjjsssssttttwwwddd."

"That's stupid." Hit Girl was saying, cleaning one of her blades on her pant leg and then admiring it's shine in the light. "I say he's gone enough as it is. Let me put this in his heart. I'll do it quickly if you want."

"Stop it," Kick Ass said. Turning back to the other boy, he asked the question again.

This time, Red Mist made it a point to articulate as best as he could manage. "Juusst Weed." It was difficult. Way more difficult than it should have been to say just two measly words. This was becoming alarming.

"Ok. So, you've had some pot and alcohol and probably a lot of roofies and a mystery substance that might also be roofies. Or something else," he was bending fingers with each drug he listed. Keeping track. "So if we have to take you to the hospital, we'll know--"

"We're not taking him to the hospital." Hit Girl interrupted. She didn't seem impressed.   
"Why not? I don't know what we're supposed to do!"

"It's too risky. He might talk."

"Talk about what? And anyway, what would stop him from talking even if he survives this tonight?" Kick Ass questioned, and then instantly regretted.

Suddenly aware of his vulnerability despite the immense fogginess in his brain, Red Mist sat up quickly (or as quickly as he could). Pausing another second to fight the queasy feeling in his stomach caused by vertigo, he sputtered out, "Ihave innnfo."

"You have info? What kind of info?" Hit Girl asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Infff...info. I dunno. So you caaaan't killme," he responded. Unable to clarify any further, he fell back onto the floor. A wave of exhaustion was hitting him again like a ton of bricks. 

Hit Girl had gotten up and rejoined Kick Ass at Red Mist's half-unconscious side. "Not that I trust you. In fact, you're probably just lying to save your ass for an extra couple of hours," she said, addressing the prone figure. She turned to Kick Ass. "But either way, I guess we're stuck with him then, since we're not taking him to the hospital." She said the last six words as authoritatively as possible, letting it be known that in no way would she consider any other option.

Kick Ass got the message, and understood that trying to adjust the plan to his own would be a Very. Bad. Idea. He was, however, still worried about the boy whose body was currently splayed against the wooden floor, his body slowly rocking back and forth in waves. "But how do we make sure he's ok? It's not like we have medical training."

Hit Girl made a pshaw sound. "Either his body can handle it or not. We wait."

As if on cue, a police siren sounded out in the distance, somewhere beyond the shattered windows on the other side of the apartment. Hit Girl considered her last statement and retracted it. "Scratch that. No time to wait, we need to get out now!"


	3. Chapter 3

The blaring sound of the siren outside had started to take on a strange echoing sound, one which the two more conscious of the three recognized as other cop cars joining in the chorus. From the sound of it, there had to be at least five cars, if not more. 

"Oh, shit," Dave gasped, fully aware that the number of dead mobsters littering the demolished high rise apartment was sizeable. Visions of jail cells and angry prisoners suddenly filled his head. He somehow doubted the law system would let him off the hook because the victims were "bad guys". 

"We've got to move. Now." Hit Girl had already collected her weapons and was halfway across the room.   
"How? They're probably already surrounding the building!" he could hear the panic rising in his voice. For what seemed like the thousandth time, he cursed himself for getting in over his head.

Hit Girl had already left the room, but her voice resonated back down through the hallway. "Find a window on a less conspicuous side, grapple up the wall if we have to." 

"Great." Dave's voice was less-than-enthusiastic. Visions of plummeting to his death were replacing the previous images. "But what about Red Mist?" There was no answer. She was already searching the place for a decent escape route. 

The prospect of being discovered by the cops didn't appeal to Red Mist either. In his drug-addled state, cops equaled arrest while staying with Kick Ass at least had the possibility of...well, more time with Kick Ass. Never mind the fact that the best chance of survival probably involved staying in the apartment, the connections in his brain weren't set at the sharpest setting at the moment. 

"Therrrs' a car. Garage. Secret." Speaking seemed to take a lot out of him, and Red Mist ended his explanation with as little words as possible. 

"What? Like an escape route?" Dave's face had regained some of the color it had recently lost, hopeful for an alternate way out. Red Mist nodded his head. "Can you stand up? Show us where it is?"

Nodding his head again, Red Mist slid his arms underneath himself for balance, attempting to stand. His body felt much heavier than normal, and the muscles in both his arms and legs were acting as if they were partially asleep. Dave reached out and grabbed hold of his waist, helping to pull him up. Red Mist leaned into the other boy's chest as he slowly stood. This would be a lot more satisfying if he wasn't feeling like he was gonna pass out. Dammit. 

Putting most of his weight on Dave's shoulder, Red Mist stumbled forward. There were sounds coming from downstairs. The cops were already inside. It wouldn't be long before they found their way to the apartment. No time for fucking around. The two of them made their way out of the room and turned left, following a long stretch of hallway. Passing a bathroom and a spare bedroom, Red Mist suddenly reached out and grasped the door handle of a hall closet.   
Pulling it open, he ducked into the small space and immediately fell to his knees. Not stopping to check for scuffs in the leather outfit, instead he began feeling around the base of the wall. Tired hands searching for a lever...it was here somewhere...

Sensations of fear returning to him, Dave hoped that his informer wasn't too badly mind-fucked to lead them to escape. What if there's nothing here? What if this is a trap? The sounds downstairs were getting louder as the officers made their way up the building. About ready to go running back down the hall in search of his younger companion, a panel in the back of the closet suddenly shot open. Red Mist made a pleased sound as a small elevator was unexpectedly revealed. 

"Whoa, that's actually really fucking cool." For a second, Dave's nerd-side took over as he admired the contraption.

"What the hell are you guys doing - oh, sweet!" Hit Girl appeared at the closet door, grapple in hand. "Guess we don't need this anymore." Throwing her apparatus back into her belt, she ducked into the closet with the other two. "Where does it go?"

"I think it leads to a garage, or something." Dave ventured.

"Can we trust him?" On her last word, the long beep of the main elevator in the other room sounded. Law enforcement had finally made it up to the top. "Guess we'll have to." The three of them piled into the little elevator just as the cops secured access to the apartment several rooms away. Red Mist reached out hurriedly and punched a single button; door close. As it slid shut he pushed the one other button in the elevator -- garage -- several times in quick succession. The little box lurched upward briefly and then began its trail downward.

Cramped into the little elevator designed for two people at most, they waited impatiently, all three caught up in their thoughts. Hit Girl busily constructed plans in her head for the remainder of the escape, always making sure she was three steps ahead. Dave wondered how often the elevator was used, and queasily pondered the possibility of it snapping on its cables and plunging them down to their deaths. Red Mist, too fatigued to deliberate on much, was instead mesmerized by the way it felt to lean against Kick Ass's tall frame. 

The box finally beeped and the door slid open, exposing the three of them to a tiny one-car garage. A black car waited in the spot. Escape route established. 

"You'd better drive, you look more the part," Hit Girl decided almost immediately. She gestured toward Dave and rushed over to the passenger side door. It opened without needing to be unlocked, and she jumped in.

"Ok, I guess that leaves the back seat." Dave supported Red Mist on his way to the back door and pulled the handle. The door clicked open and Red Mist half-crawled, half-fell in. Maneuvering clumsily across the seats, he didn't bother with the seatbelt. Slamming the door promptly, Dave claimed his seat in the driver's spot. "I really hope the keys are here." Pulling the visor down, relief flooded over him as a gold key attached to a key chain in the shape of a revolver tumbled out and fell into his lap. "I guess we're in business?" The response sounded more like a question than anything. 

"Here's hoping there aren't too many of them still outside," Hit Girl said, shifting in her seat. Reaching across Dave, for a brief moment he wondered if she had decided to commandeer the driver's spot after all. Instead, her finger pressed against a black plastic box mounted on the dashboard in front of his face. A garage door opener. With a whirring sound, the wall in front of them began to rise, a few glimmers of light streaming in to replace the darkness previously surrounding them. The door opened like a curtain rising on a theatre stage. The three of them held their breaths, waiting for the scene to come into view. For a second, everything was still. Finally, reaching its destination, the door stopped. 

Both Dave and Hit Girl spoke at the same time. "It's...clear." The road ahead of them, while admittedly slightly dark and somewhat ominous, was nonetheless lacking in the expected dog pile of cop cars. "Alright then," Hit Girl responded again. "Better floor it just in case."  
"Oh, we're so out of here." Dave agreed, putting pedal to the metal and catapulting out only a little faster than he had anticipated. The car spun out onto the road ahead, taking a hard left upon reaching the cross street.

"Shhhit, man!" Red Mist's voice, suddenly hot in Dave's ear, caused him to swerve onto the sidewalk. The bump jarring them all, Dave yanked the wheel around and managed to pull the car back onto the street. Slamming the brakes, it screeched to a halt.

"What the hell? Are you trying to kill us?" Dave's voice was high and piercing.   
"You're goin' the wrrrong way!" Pointing a gloved finger out toward the front of the windshield, he made an exasperated face. Flickering lights were illuminating brick walls at the end of the road. Police car lights. 

"Oh...." Dave couldn't help feeling pangs of awkwardness build up inside. "I guess this leads to the front of the building, then..."

"The garage must have let us out in the back," Hit Girl said matter-of-factly. "Turn around as stealthily as possible. Keep the headlights off."

Putting the car into reverse, the green-clad teen did as he was told. Red Mist fell back into the seat, exhausted. Hit Girl kept her eyes on the black and white cars up ahead, looking for any signs that they had been spotted. It didn't look like it. In fact, only two cops were actually even in sight. One gripping a walkie-talkie and intent on the conversation being held over it, the other busy setting up road block cones.

Picking up where it left off, only in the opposite direction, the car slowly began to pick up speed again the further it got from the D'Amico estate. "Where am I driving to, anyway? Now that we're basically fugitives?" Dave let out a small laugh, a joke tinged with painful realization and apprehension for the future.

"Back to the base. It's safe there, now that everyone who used to know about it is dead. Or, about to be, at least." She glanced sideways at the boy in the back seat, currently stretched out across the entire bench, eyes closed and breathing shallowly. "Do you remember how to get there?"

Dave took a deep breath. "I remember."


	4. Chapter 4

Throwing the door open ahead of her, Hit Girl took one last precautionary glance around before stepping inside. The apartment had been chosen for its secluded nature, and the fact that no one asked questions or second-guessed strange activity in its hallways. But one could never be too careful.

The light was still on, an afterthought previously forgotten in the mess of the night's earlier events. When the two of them had left earlier in the night, they had had more important things on their minds. It's warm glow contrasted the barrage of weapons lining the walls. Crossing the threshold into the apartment, she turned and waited impatiently for Dave to drag the unwelcome visitor in behind her. She stood in almost the same spot on the floor where said unwelcome visitor had previously shot her point-blank. Aggravated, she crossed her arms tightly against her chest. He really better have some fucking good information for us after all this.

Dave - ever the good Samaritan - she couldn't help but think, had an arm strewn around Red Mist's back and cradled under an armpit, supporting the shorter boy as he walked. Well, walking wasn't the best word. Stumbled was a better expression. Tripping over his own boots as he leaned on his escort, he staggered in, barely even looking up.

"Ok," she muttered, walking briskly back to the door to shut it. "He can't stay in this room. I don't really trust him around guns." Dave lifted an eyebrow, wondering what she actually expected him to do in this state, but kept quiet. Snapping several locks on the door, she motioned to the hallway. "We'll put him in the back, for now." 

"The back?"

"It's not a torture chamber or anything if that's what you're thinking. We actually used to live here sometimes, me and my...." her voice stopped short, and for a brief second her eyes began to tear up. As soon as it appeared, however, it disappeared again. Shoved back into whatever room she stored painful emotions, only to be accessed at moments when she was alone. With only a small sniff as evidence of her short emotional setback, she shook her head and marched onward. Not looking back to see if the other two were following - she knew they were -, she led them into a short hallway and finally a small converted bedroom. The furniture was sparse, just an overstuffed brown couch, a tiny television mounted to one wall, and a desk containing several computers. The tv was still on, set at low volume to CNN. She switched it off and spun around, eying with annoyance the way that Dave was gently setting Red Mist onto the couch. Sinking into the large cushions, her adversary leaned to the side and folded himself onto the same spot that she herself used to relax after a long day of sparring. God, this is so irritating! 

Telling herself to let it go, she instead issued a warning. "If, by any chance, you feel the need to throw up, it had better not be anywhere near this couch. I may just forget that I wasn't going to kill you."

 

It was about nine minutes - no, closer to nine and a half - until she had finally left the room. Dave felt a sense of guilt in his gut, knowing that he had been counting down the minutes while waiting for her to leave. The sinister gleam that would flash in her eyes whenever she had cast a sideward glance at Red Mist had been a little too intense. At one point she had demanded the information from him, the volume of her voice kept cool but the tone had been enough to give even Dave goosebumps. Red Mist had slurred something about a hidden safe that contained contact information of several high profile gangsters, but the sentences had been exceptionally short, interrupted by long pauses in between. When she had asked about the combination to the safe, he had briefly passed out - an action that Hit Girl had taken as an excuse until attempts to prove he was lying failed. A punch to the jaw didn't wake him, nor did another blow help to jar his memory after he came to and claimed he couldn't remember the code. Either he was really good, or he wasn't faking. She bet on the latter. 

"Keep him awake until I get back. Or at least get the combination." Those were the last words Hit Girl had spoken before she had walked out the door, intent on grabbing the safe from the destination Red Mist had spilled minutes before. Dave wasn't sure she had believed in the existence of the safe or not, but he was certain that if it wasn't where he had insisted it was, she was coming back with a barrage of weapons to discharge into her rival.

Dave looked at the shut door, his mind somehow drawn to various small patches in the corners where the cracked paint had chipped off. Dark, furrowed wood underneath peeked out unapologetically. The door, like the room, seemed like a costume placed over the real meaning. It was a home, yes - but it was first and foremost a base. A place where business came first and then everything else second.

There was that guilt again. Felt like he was betraying his partner just because he wanted to help Red Mist instead of kill him or stretch out his misery in order to grab a combination lock code from his mind. He had gotten into this in the first place because he wanted to help people. Well...ok. Making a name for himself as a superhero didn't hurt, but in the end he really did feel a sense of obligation. There was an honor code you take on once you adorn a costume. A long line of responsibility passed down from comic book hero to comic book hero. Whether or not it always translated in real life, he wanted to do the right thing. He'd murdered enough people tonight, this one...this boy that he had at one time shared a connection with...this one he couldn't bear to kill as well. 

You don't just massacre everyone who has any affiliation whatsoever to the dark side. Red Mist isn't bad, he's just... "Confused, maybe. Something like that." It took him a second to realize he spoke this last part out loud. Biting his lip nervously, he glanced back at the door. Still closed. Of course it was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, tugging at the vestiges of reason, contradictory thoughts nagged. Am I just making excuses? The truth was, whether he wanted to face it or not, he didn't want to believe that everything he previously understood was falling apart. That not only did evil exist, but it was likely often standing right in front of you, flashing you a devilish grin. That people did bad things sometimes for no reason. He just couldn't dwell on it tonight. There was too much dried blood clinging to the bottoms of his beige Timberland boots to add to it even further. 

The couch cushions shifted underneath him, bringing his distracted gaze back to the enemy in question. The pale boy next to him was flopping awkwardly, looking not unlike a dying fish, out of water and struggling for movement. He didn't look like a villain, he looked like a helpless kid who had spent his life trying to gain acceptance and being denied it at every turn. Perhaps it was because something in Red Mist reminded him of himself - 'it kind of seems like he just got in over his head with all this' - perhaps he just felt sorry for him, but he felt a strong urge to make sure that the other boy got through the night alive.

Back on the other side of the couch, Red Mist was exerting an oddly large amount of movement in an abnormally slow-motion speed as he attempted to change his position from one side to the other. Finally successful in flipping around, he now faced the back of the couch. Pulling his legs into his body, he proceeded to bury his head into one of the cushions.  
"Hold up, don't do that!" Dave reached over and pulled the other boy free from the couch padding. Groggy, listless brown eyes peered up at him through the black mask, not fully understanding. "It's better if you can breathe easier," he explained simply, his hands still holding onto costumed shoulders. 

One side of his mouth pulling up into a smirk, Red Mist nodded his head. The movements were short and sharp in an unnervingly disjointed fashion. In an attempt to put him into a better, more respiratory-friendly position, Dave leaned forward into him, pushing the other boy back. Red Mist collapsed backward, his spine against the soft cushions below, his legs spread open around Dave's form hovering above, Dave's arms still placed precariously on his shoulders. A short giggle erupted from Red Mist's lips, too chemically overcome to hold it back.  
Had he been fully aware of his actions, he would have been mortified by the escape of the laughter from his lungs. As it was, everything was just happening as it happened, blurring together and meaning everything and yet nothing at the same time. Segments of time seemed to disappear altogether, which had at first been alarming but he had more recently begun to accept. The fear and anger that had grasped hold of his mind when he had first consumed the poison had at some point began to morph into a general fuzzy blur of events and experiences rather than meaning and consequence. And at the moment, the only experience he cared about was the feeling of Kick Ass between his legs. His inebriated laughter fading, he opened his mouth once more and uttered a request. "Kiss me."

The sentence hung in the air as if it were painted in neon on a billboard marquee. He hadn't even slurred the words, for once. Dave was frozen in place, muscles tense, fully aware of the risqué position that he had accidentally put the both of them in. Not knowing how to react, he stayed stock still for several seconds, frozen by uncertainty. So, that settles that previous question then. "I, uh...I don't really roll that way." Flinching, Dave immediately regretted his choice in words. God, that sounded dumb. 

"Oh." Either Red Mist was either acting melodramatic or he was having another bad reaction to the poison, but his eyes suddenly rolled back into his head and shuttered half closed. Pulling himself upward and into a sitting position, Dave watched as the other boy's head dropped backwards completely into the couch.

"I mean, you're cute and all...for a boy, I mean," his words falling awkwardly into the air, Dave searched his head for better sentences to repair the situation. "Cause you're sort of like a girl, which is nice. You have that skinny, kind of frail thing going on, which is...you know...kind of attractive and stuff. " Stop talking! Stop talking! Oh, shit, you're making it worse! "Which is normally my type, except for the...you know... possession of a penis, but...shit, man are you ok?"

Suddenly aware of the lack of any movement in his companion, Dave leapt off to the side of the couch and began to shake the other boy. His body shifting lifelessly side to side with each shake, there was no response. For a brief second, Dave felt a surge of panic and uncertainty before he remembered the Red Cross first aid class his dad had forced him to take several years ago. At the time it had seemed like such a horrific waste of summer vacation days; he had even stashed several issues of X-Men into his backpack for perusing whenever he got the chance. Somehow, however, he had passed the class. Whether he deserved the certificate declaring him accomplished in the course of first aid would soon be known.

Hurriedly, Dave shucked off one of the extended leather gloves from Red Mists' hand. Unlike others in his class, he had always been better finding a pulse on an arm than the neck. Digging two fingers into pale skin, a very slight throb resonated within. The relief Dave felt quickly turned back into nervousness, however, when he realized that the pulse was coming very slowly, at least less than one beat a second. From what he recalled from the first aid class, he was pretty sure that was bad. Moving his fingers from Red Mist's wrist to his own, he compared the speed. Yep, it was bad.

"Shit." Feeling helpless, Dave resorted to his previous action of shaking the unconscious body. Fervent movements became more and more zealous as his efforts to wake his drugged companion went on without any result. Red Mist's head lolled from side to side, limp. Just as Dave prepared to dash to the nearest computer in the room in search of Google-related assistance he heard a sharp intake of breath and just like that, Red Mist was, once again, stirring on his own. Slowly.

"Are you alright, man?" Dave questioned, gazing into half-closed eyes. "I think you just passed out again." 

A period of several seconds went by where no response was uttered, that dazed expression glued to Red Mist's face. Finally, as if the words he had spoken took an extended vacation before deciding to do their job and put themselves together in his brain, he uttered a small "yeeaahh." And like some electronic toy running dangerously low on batteries, his eyes dropped shut again suddenly and his head lurched forward for a brief moment before pulling back once again.

"Yeah..I don't think so, actually," Dave spoke hesitantly. "Can you sit up?" A complaining grumble emitted from Red Mist's lips, his eyes still shut. He gave no indication that he planned on moving. Dave eyed him cautiously, brow furrowed. Grabbing the listless wrist once again, he shoved his fingers back into the leather sleeve and felt the delicate throb. It was still progressing at that impossibly slow pace.

Dave was just about to suggest that Red Mist should sit up, maybe try walking around or something - he really had no idea what to do - when the labored breaths from the boy on the couch abruptly stopped. "Red Mist? Fuck."


	5. Chapter 5

So this was it then. 

 

That act he had worried he might have to perform if it had come down to it was looking more and more likely. It was either that or wait around another minute or so until Red Mist's weak heartbeats flat lined into nonexistence the same way that his lungs now refused to operate. Which; Dave decided, swallowing nervously, still wasn't an option. Taking a deep breath, he mentally prepared himself, various steps of rescue breathing filtering messily through his mind.

It's either now or never. 

Leaning over the motionless form, he brought his face closer to Red Mist's, hovering over ashen lips. Lips that had been as apt to offer compliments as they were to deal out threats. For a brief second, Dave again wondered if he was doing the right thing. Perhaps it was the adrenaline pumping through his system giving him an added sense of urgency, but he once again fell back on his previous theory. He's just a confused kid. His dad tried to poison him, for fuck's sake. Just stop hesitating and do it. With no more of a thought on the subject, he bent down and locked his mouth over Red Mist's.

The first thought he had was of how weird it felt to have tiny strands of stubble poking at the skin around his mouth. That was definitely a new sensation. Uneasily, he allowed his mind to wander to the fact that the boy lying under him would probably be ecstatic if he knew that Dave had his mouth fastened to his own in such a way. It had grown increasingly obvious throughout the night that Red Mist wanted him, despite - or maybe because of - his grossly inebriated state. But there wasn't a lot of time for pointless ponderings. Back to the point at hand..

Exhaling a lungful of air in a sharp burst, he immediately felt a slight gust on his cheek, which was confusing at first until the realization dawned that he had forgotten that plugging the nose was one of the important aspects of the technique. Silently cursing himself, he tried again, this time making sure not to let oxygen escape through the nose. Still nothing. Finally reaching into his hair, he pulled Red Mist's head back and lifted his chin with his other hand. That's what you were supposed to do with the dolls, right? Pinching the nose again, he leaned down one more time and sealed his mouth around those deceitful lips, puffing another breath. 

As he did so, in a simultaneous motion the leather jacket on the drugged boy rose as lungs finally expanded with air. Dave pushed one more breath full of air into anticipating lungs and waited for them to fall again. He felt a sense of awe at the fact that the procedure actually worked. It was one thing performing rescue breathing on a doll, it was another thing entirely to actually see it work on a living person. 

It took another couple of exhales until, with a start, Red Mist was taking breaths on his own. Coughing, he opened his eyes up to find the image of the green and gold wetsuit hovering above him. "KickAss?" the words ran together indistinctly. 

"Yeah, hey. You stopped breathing..." Dave spoke uneasily, wondering if the other boy was in any kind of state of mind to put two and two together. Unconsciously, he ran his hand across his mouth. 

There was a pause, as Red Mist considered the statement. Abnormally sized pupils moved back and forth slowly, regarding the situation - or at least attempting to. "Oh. Shiiiiit, man." His conclusion reached, he rolled onto his side, pulling one arm under his head. He closed his eyes again, submitting to the influence of sedation.

Dave frowned. "Well, seeing as how you were practically dead a minute ago, I don't think sleeping's the greatest idea. Honestly, I think you should try to throw up. See if you can."  
Red Mist was grumbling again. "Toooo much work."

"Yeah, well. The alternative is being dead, so.." Reaching out, he began to pull the other boy off the couch, Red Mist practically falling as he went. It took a little bit of dragging, as he was the one doing most of the walking, but he managed to make it to the bathroom - thankful that the other boy was underweight. "I'm gonna check the kitchen for something gross to help. There's something about saltwater we could try. Try sticking your fingers down your throat." Turning away, he headed for the hallway. 

 

Hunched over the toilet bowl, Red Mist coughed and gasped, the last bit of red liquid that he could get up spilling out from his throat. Why the hell was it red? Fuck it, whatever. While he still felt nauseous, exhausted, and like his head was about to split open, this was slightly better. Standing up on shaking legs, he fell into the counter. Obviously, there were still some issues, but at least he wasn't a drooling zombie any longer. Had he been drooling around Kick Ass? Oh god, he hoped not. Moving toward the faucet, he spun the dial to cold and threw his hands into the stream. He watched the gushing water, feeling his vision blur, and tried to remember where he was. Seconds passed as his brain struggled to bring back memories. He remembered laying on a couch. Trying to sleep on the couch. Feeling like his head was about to explode repeatedly on the couch. Godammit, why could he only think about the fucking couch? What the hell happened before that? 

With a cry, he suddenly launched backwards into the towel racks behind him. Steam was emanating from the sink, surrounding the pouring water. Apparently he had hit the hot instead of the cold. He stared at it for a moment longer, silently cursing it, and then proceeded to dry his hands off on his pants. God, he felt drunk as shit. Leaning over the counter, he opened his mouth under the faucet, the temperature of the water already forgotten. Once more, he reared backwards into the towel rack, spitting hot water onto bathroom tile. "Fuck!" Finally pulling the knob to the cold setting, he cautiously tried again, doing his best to rinse the taste of vomit out. 

The door creaked and Kick Ass suddenly appeared at the doorway, holding a large glass filled with some unidentifiable liquid. He looked surprised. "Did you do it?

The question confused Red Mist. "Dooo wha?" He couldn't make the words sound the way he wanted either. They were coming out all wrong. 

"You threw up? I'm assuming?"

"Oh...mmhhh." He nodded his head slowly.

Kick Ass was looking at him strangely, studying him. Finally, with a smile, he set the glass down on the counter. "Guess you don't need that then. Which is probably good. I had no idea how much salt to put in. Come on, why don't you get back to the couch."

As soon as he started moving, Red Mist felt his vision start to dim, and before he had taken two steps, everything went completely dark.

 

When he came to again, he was - once more - on the couch. The goddamned couch. His head was ringing, his body ached, his lungs felt like they weren't quite getting enough air, and everything was moving in slow motion. But one thing almost made it all worth it. Kick Ass was sitting next to him, his hand resting on Red Mist's arm and the most delicious look of concern plastered on that costumed face. 

It had always been about power. Behind closed doors, Red Mist had jacked off a hundred times fantasizing about Kick Ass in compromising positions. A little blood, a lot of blood, broken bones, it didn't matter as long as in the end he had the upper hand. As long as he had the power. It wasn't that he didn't feel attraction to the other boy, that he had in spades. It was all part of a fascination that he couldn't even try to explain. Lust was pain was love was injury. Was control.

And now, despite the fact that his body was infuriatingly refusing to work correctly, there was something exhilarating about the expression on the other boy's face. Pure, undiluted worry for his wellbeing. Like he would do anything for him. And that, in Red Mist's power-hungry drugged-up little mind, meant everything. 

"Do you feel any better?" Those full lips were moving again, addressing him through the slit in the costume. Red Mist wanted to punch him in the mouth, bloody up those beautiful lips before he kissed him. He felt his cock stir in his pants, sexual want overcoming the fatigue plagued throughout his body. "Red Mist?"

"Huh? What?" Thoughts dropping out of his head as quickly as they came, he shifted his gaze from lips to eyes.

"I was asking if you felt better? Since you, um..got some of it out of your system and stuff?" Kick Ass asked again.

"Oh. Um...yeah." 

Kick Ass shifted uncomfortably. "Because I was thinking that maybe you should tell me that combination to the safe before Hit Girl gets back, just in case she....you know, decides to kill you again." His eyes darted around the room as he spoke, as if he were afraid that she were watching him from some dark corner.

A familiar smirk crossed Red Mist's mouth. "Yeah, ok. But firsssst, do something for me." Goddamned drunken slur, he suddenly really wished that he could talk normally again. It was difficult trying to be assertive when you could barely speak without considerable effort. He began to feel his confidence slip when suddenly, out of nowhere, the unexplainable happened. Kick Ass had abruptly leaned forward and planted those full lips on his own.

Surprise didn't even begin to cover it. Eyes wide, Red Mist froze, feeling the kiss but not able to comprehend it. Realizing that the kiss wasn't being returned, Kick Ass pulled back, the parts of his face that could be seen flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry, I thought that's what you meant."

In response, Red Mist reached up and grabbed Kick Ass by the neck, pulling him down onto him again. This time, he kissed him back, months of desire and frustration culminating in each hungry kiss. Forcing his tongue into a hesitant mouth, he tried to use the hand on Kick Ass's neck to pull him even closer. Trying to force him to engulf as much of his tongue as possible. Oh God, it felt awesome. He only imagined how good it would feel to push the same head onto other places of his anatomy. Make him suck it the same way he was making him suck his tongue... In excitement, he bit down hard on soft lips.

"Gah! Shit, dude! What the hell?" Kick Ass pulled backwards, hand coming up to feel the blood glistening on his mouth. "I thought you just wanted a kiss, ONE kiss. Like, a normal, non-bitey kiss."

Red Mist looked up at him, trying not to get turned on further by the trail of red dripping from his mouth. He felt like a vampire, triggered to infatuation by the substance.

Kick Ass moved his hand across his mouth again, smearing the blood. "Look, man, I'm going to be totally straight with you." Trying to ignore the unintentional pun, he continued. "I kissed you because I don't want you to die. Which you will if I don't get that combination. And earlier tonight you had made it pretty evident that you wanted me to kiss you. So I just naturally assumed..."

Red Mist's eyebrows were furrowed. Had he already tried to get kissed earlier tonight? He couldn't even remember. Seeing the confused expression, Kick Ass sighed. "And, you've obviously forgotten all about that. Ok, look. Just tell me the combination."

"Kiss me again."

"Fuck, no."

Feeling hurt, Red Mist leaned back, trying to decide what move to make next. The room was still spinning, although much slower now. He closed his eyes and swayed back and forth slightly with the movement, finding it hard to make any sort of plans while feeling so out of it. An image of his dad popped into his mind, suddenly and without warning. Pain turned to anger and flipped back and forth repeatedly. Try not to think about it. He was an asshole anyway. Stop thinking about it! Stop it!

In angry desperation, he reached out once more and grabbed onto Kick Ass' shoulder, just holding on in silence. His nails dug into the wetsuit, but not out of any sort of sexual gratification, but instead seeking some type of reassurance. His grip lasted longer than he was currently capable of keeping track. He just stayed there, frozen; eyes locked onto some unseen image. At one point, he closed them tightly, forcing tears away. Kick Ass stayed still throughout the whole development, not saying anything. On some level, he realized what the other boy was going through and felt the weight of the situation on his shoulders as well. 

After what seemed like forever, Red Mist opened his eyes again, turning his head so the other boy wouldn't be able to see the gleam of tears fashioning themselves on his face. When he turned it back, once again he was surprised by the feel of lips on his own. Kick Ass was kissing him again, but this time instead of that awkward, barely moving atrocity of an action he had performed the first time, this one had feeling behind it. It was delicate and full of.. compassion? Sympathy? It was hard to say. Red Mist had never experienced anything like this before.

Slowly, as if he had never done this before, he kissed the other boy back. He tried to match the delicate nature of the kiss, feeling wet blood against his lips but no longer feeling the need to rip and tear at Kick Ass' mouth to fulfill that strange sexual urge. This was different somehow. And somewhere in the back of his drug-addled mind, as time continued to slow, something snapped. That thread held so tightly to the need for control; for power; gave way. For that instant, he was able to let go. Falling backward for what seemed like forever, plunging into the cushions and seeming to drop backwards even still, he allowed Kick Ass' body to collapse on top of him. The weight of the taller boy was resting on his frame, pinning him to the couch. Not harshly, but in a soothing, comforting way. When the boy on top pulled his lips away, it was done in the same slow, delicate manner. "Ok?"

 

"Ok?" When Dave had uttered the word, he was distinctly aware of how strange it had sounded at that moment in time. He wasn't sure what had compelled him to kiss the other boy either, especially after how the last kissing session had gone. And it wasn't like he was gay or anything. At least...nothing up to this point in his life had ever indicated that he had feelings for other guys. There had just been this look on Red Mist's face, like he had been damaged in a completely irreparable fashion. He just wanted to shut it off, if only for a minute. And it seemed like it had worked. At least for now, anyways.

"Therrre's no safe." The statement came out of nowhere, and sounded very far away, like Red Mist was whispering through a bad telephone connection.

"Wait, what?"

"I made it up."


	6. Chapter 6

How the memory of the safe (or lack of safe, as it would be) had popped into Red Mist's mind, he had no idea. One strange moment of lucidity had forced its way into the forefront of his thoughts, perhaps in a manner of instinctual survival. Because when it came to Hit Girl, you had better make sure you were on your game or you were going to end up pretty fucked. 

"You lied about that?" Kick Ass was talking slowly, trying to understand the gravity of the situation. "So basically, Hit Girl went out in search of something that doesn't exist?"

"Um...yeaaah." The memory of the safe was already dimming out, thoughts of being pummeled by an eleven year old replaced by more recent memories of the kiss. Red Mist licked his lips, wanting to taste Kick Ass on them once again. He stared at the other boy, fascinated by the memory of how strangely enticing it had felt when he had been pinned to the couch. That  
was a new experience. Contradictory thoughts wrestled in his mind. One part of him wanted Kick Ass to take him in an embrace again, push away all vestiges of fear and accountability, to just let him exist in the moment once more. The other part was already toying with the idea of pulling the green boy back to him, wrestling him around until he was on top and kicking him in the groin before locking his mouth on him again. He silently cursed the fact that he was in no state to overpower anyone at the moment. Before this wandering train of thought could ride those tracks any longer, however, Kick Ass' voice broke through the brief silence.

"Well, that changes things. You're fucked, dude. I mean, really fucked. " His voice was higher pitched than normal, realization of the impending actions dawning on him. "Why did you lie to her?"

"Um..." There was a long pause as Red Mist attempted to consider the reason. He just kept coming back to Kick Ass' lips over and over again. 

Great. So it was back to this, again. 

Kick Ass stood up and walked to the only window in the room, separating the blinds with two fingers and staring out glass to the city outside. "She really fucking hates you, man. In case you've forgotten this little piece of info, you did shoot her in the chest."

Those instinctual survival mechanisms kicking in again, Red Mist put a hand to his jaw, still tender from the punch issued it earlier in the night. He could only barely remember the latest confrontation with the angry eleven year old, but it was there. The fear was still there, at least. Gazing drearily around the room, something shiny caught his eye. A glint of metal, half concealed under a stack of papers, sat on an end table only a couple of feet away. Could that be...a knife?

Still peering through the window, Kick Ass remained still. He didn't notice Red Mist pulling himself off the couch and stumble forward, nor did he notice him snatching up the finely honed weapon. If he had been less worried about when Hit Girl was going to show up, he probably would have heard the clumsy footfalls across carpeted floor. As it was, it wasn't until the blade was suddenly pressed against his back that he slowly turned around and saw Red Mist   
slouching behind him, an unidentifiable expression on his face. 

 

How is this possible?!? Dave was too stunned to say anything. Surprise didn't even begin to cover it. The last time he had been this dumbfounded was back in his bedroom reading Jeph Loeb's Hush. That had been some crazy-ass plot twist there. Grabbing onto whatever composure he could find stashed in himself, he confronted his inebriated assailant. 

"Dude! Just three minutes ago I was ki--I was comforting you! And fifteen minutes before that, I was fucking saving your life! What the hell?" He narrowed his eyes, breathing deeply. Feelings of betrayal were seeping through his head, not able to understand how this boy that he had saved from the brink of death was already threatening his life. He felt the knife slide across his costume, fraying the thread but not cutting into material. Yet. He didn't know whether to be scared or angry.

The eyes that stared back at him seemed empty. Was he actually emotionless, or was the mask that he usually wore starting to rub off on his real face? Trying to push away the hurt feelings he was experiencing, Dave ran through his options. They were pretty few, at the moment.

Was it possible to just overpower him? Red Mist was still pretty fucked from the cocktail of various drugs and alcohol, it probably wouldn't be too hard. But the knife was right there. It would be difficult for Red Mist to fuck that up, even as messed up as he was. The phantom pain of Dave's old knife wound began to throb, echoing the pounding of his heart. Damaged nerves or not, it fucking sucked to get stabbed. It would suck even more to bleed out on the floor of Hit Girl's apartment. He somehow doubted the funeral would be open casket. 

"Come on, man. Red Mist...do you really want to stab me? I kind of...thought you liked me."  
"I do." Red Mist dropped his head for a second, but somehow kept his gaze on Kick Ass. It was strange. Dave could practically see the wheels turning in that evil little bastard's head. It looked like he was having some sort of internal argument with himself. His knife, although shaky, was still placed against Dave's gut. 

"So, what? You want me to help you escape or something before she gets back? Is that what this is about?"

"Yeah...no...I mean..." Red Mist frowned, trying to decipher which of the several options currently flitting in and out of his head was the one he wanted. "Wait.." 

Deciding not to wait, Dave said a silent prayer to whatever God hadn't been watching out for him lately and darted his hand forward, hoping that his momentum could smack the weapon away. It worked, but not entirely in the way he had planned. The knife spun out of Red Mists' grip, somersaulting through the air in a way which would have been comical except for the fact that when Dave pulled his hand back, it was dripping with blood. 

"Shit!" both boys yelled out in unison, one's voice tinged with pain and the other with surprise. Red Mist fell backward at the same time, hitting the carpet with a thud. Dave wrapped one hand in the other, grimacing. Maybe not the best way of doing it...but, mission accomplished? He squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of pain shot through him - apparently the nerves in his hands weren't as fucked up as the rest of him - and cursed again. Comparatively, it wasn't as bad as the televised beating he had endured only hours earlier, but there was something about knives that really got to him. He opened his eyes again just in time to see that little villain twisting across the carpet toward the fallen blade. No sooner had he reached the weapon, he seized it and rolled onto his side, changing the grip to both hands. He looked a little like a snake. A tiny, dying rattlesnake quivering its tail in warning of attack. 

After several long seconds, Dave spoke. "I...have no idea how to respond to this." 

Red Mist coughed, wheezing sounds erupting from irritated, tired lungs. His gaze never left the boy standing above him. "I like watching you bleed." The words came out without a slur. Precise, to-the-point, and with a sinister quality that sent a shiver down Dave's spine.

Still bewildered, "I don't understand. I've been helping you ever since your dad tried to kill you. Do you know how many times Hit Girl could have knocked you off if I hadn't been here?" He rolled his hands into angry fists, not even noticing the sting from the injured hand as fingers closed over the fresh wound. 

No reply. Just those dark, soul-less eyes staring upward. And then, without warning, his head lolled back and his grip from the knife loosened, partial unconsciousness hitting him. Dave stayed where he was, deciding to just watch and see what happened. In truth, however, he was frozen to the spot, so stunned by the turn of events that he wasn't even sure what to do. Was it possible that Red Mist was just showing impaired judgment, caused by lack of blood to the brain or something like that? Once again, Dave caught himself making excuses for the other boy and wondered why it kept happening. Before he could string together a reasonable answer, Red Mist was once again coming to. Blinking confusedly, he looked at the knife in his hands. He shifted his gaze back to Dave, and Dave held his breath for any sign of empathy. 

"Yurrr bleeding." If there was concern in his voice, Dave couldn't tell. The tone was detached, far away.. 

"Yeah, you did it. Basically." 

"Oh." The wide, soul-less eyes Red Mist had worn before passing out this last time were now nowhere to be found, replaced instead by half-shut, tired looking eyes. He looked stoned, which - while he probably was - was at least less nerve wracking to look into. 

A loud chime sound suddenly cut through the air, snapping Dave out of his current thoughts. Turning his head, he recognized the source as coming from one of the computers in the room. What now? "Hold on," he stated nonchalantly to the form on the floor, backing up to the desk. There, on the screen of one of the monitors, was an instant message from Hit Girl, probably sent from her cell phone.

\- Bastard was lying. No Safe here. Be back in 5. Keep him awake for me. -

"What'sssss going on?" murmured the figure on the floor. He had, at some point, dropped the knife in front of him, no longer seeing any use for it. His current state was even more out of it, although, Dave noted, not out of it enough for when Hit Girl came back. She had said to keep him awake; clearly she was planning on exacting a painful revenge. Did he deserve it? Maybe, maybe not. But he wasn't the type of person that could sit around and watch someone be tortured that he had spent the last hour trying to save.

"Nothing. Just a computer update." Dave wasn't sure why he lied, especially since once again, Red Mist had proved to be a backstabber. He just seemed so pitiful, lying there completely fucked the hell up, unknowingly awaiting an even more painful death once Hit Girl arrived. Despite everything that had happened in the last few minutes, Dave felt a surge of guilt for his role in the coming events. Could he get the other boy out before she got back? Doubtful. Red Mist was light, but not that light. It wasn't like he could just whisk him away in five minutes. Reason with Hit Girl? Ha. No. There was only one thing he could think of, and while it wasn't pleasant, it was better than what Hit Girl most likely had planned. He kneeled down in front of the other boy. "Do you have any weed on you?"

At first Red Mist just stared upward, to the extent that Dave wondered if he had passed out for the thousandth time tonight, but finally a small smirk covered his face. "Why? You want some?" 

"Just give it to me." Dave's voice was full of impatience, sure that his eleven year old cohort was just around the corner. Red Mist slowly went for his pocket. The speed with which he did so, or lack of speed in this case, was maddening. Finally, he pulled out a small baggie, several joints contained within. "This stuff works pretty fast, right?" Dave asked. His knowledge of drugs was entertainingly low.

There was a pause as Red Mist considered the question. "Yeah, I thhhhink so." 

Opening the baggie and pulling one out, "Good, then you're going to smoke this as fast as you can." Opting not to wait any longer for the delayed reaction of Red Mist's retrieval of a lighter, Dave instead dug into the pockets of the boy on the floor. Ignoring the reaction he was sure his search was instigating, he located the object and pulled it out. "Here. Smoke." 

"Why?" Ignoring the question, Dave popped it into the mouth of the boy lying next to him and ignited it with the lighter. Because you're going to want to be as far gone as possible before she gets back.


	7. Chapter 7

It had been a little more than five minutes since the instant message had first been sent to the computer at Hit Girl's base. Seven and a half minutes had passed since that fateful "chime" on the computer had sounded, when she came stomping in the door, pissed off and ready to resolve her frustrations.

The back room smelled slightly of marijuana, an open window had cleared most of it but the scent still lingered. When she came marching through the door, her arms free of weapons but her expression telling the world she didn't need them, she was met with two figures. One sat on the couch, arms folded tensely and a strange, hesitant expression on his face. The other on the floor, lying on his back, red cape stretched out underneath him.

"I hope you kept him conscious enough for this. Fucker sent me on a wild goose chase for nothing." She didn't even stop to greet Dave, her determined path only halted once she reached Red Mist. "Don't tell me he's dead already." The pallid skin tone and unmoving body of the boy on the floor didn't help to make him look any less lifeless. 

Dave didn't say anything. He just watched her face twist into an exasperated expression as she leaned down closer for a second look. If she smelled the freshly smoked pot on him, or wafting through the air for that matter, she didn't say anything. A closer examination revealed that, short of being practically catatonic, he was indeed alive. When she finally spoke, it was to Dave. "Well, that's a relief. I was worried he might have died before I got a chance to do it." And without hesitation, she added, "Although, judging by the fresh smell of pot stinking up the place, I feel like an introduction to my pipe wrench is in order." Oh, so she did notice. "Were you still set on him getting a quick death?" she continued, her eyes narrowed. "Cause I think, at this point, this fucker deserves a much slower and more agonizing --"

"Hold up." If there was any trace of worry in Dave's voice, it wasn't detectable. "I know you might be able to kill people, but I'm Silver Age. I don't do that."

For the first time since she entered the room, she looked up at him. "No one said you had to do anything. I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself."

"But doesn't it bother you? Taking lives?"

"I hardly think you can compare scum like this to honest, good people."

Dave sighed. "Maybe. Maybe not. But that doesn't mean that you can just decide who deserves to live or die."

"Why not? I'm making this city a safer place." 

"But that's exactly what I'm talking about!" Stepping up from the couch, Dave felt his zealousness grow. "It's like...it's like you're Frank Castle and I'm Spidey. You don't have to kill people to bring them to justice.!"

"Says the guy who just slaughtered like a dozen mobsters in a jet pack. You're kind of being a hypocrite." 

There was a pause as Dave considered this. Or rather, considered his reply, seeing as how he'd been reflecting on the act all night. "That was different."

A gleam of righteousness flashed in Hit Girls' eyes. "Oh yeah? Why is that?"  
"Because if I wouldn't have done it, you would be dead."

Both fell silent, the impact of Dave's statement hitting them each of them. Hit Girl's gaze darted off to the side of the room, too ashamed to meet his stare. Knowing his words had affected her, Dave took a few steps until he was next to her and knelt down slowly. He lifted his non-damaged hand to place on her shoulder, but stopped before it met its destination. It hung tentatively in the air, unsure.

"Look, I'm not happy about what I did. It fucking eats me up inside that it came to that. But I know that in that circumstance, under those conditions, I had no other choice. They would have killed you in the penthouse, and then they would have come after me, and who knows who else after that. My dad, my girlfriend... I don't even know. I'm not pretending to be perfect. Fuck, I don't even know what I'm doing half the time with this Kick Ass thing. But I know who I want to be. What I want to stand for. And it doesn't involve murdering a doped-up, drugged out kid who doesn't even have a chance to fight back."

Hit Girl sighed. Chuckled. And then met his eyes again with her own. "I think...my dad would have liked you a lot, if he had gotten to know you." There was a pained expression on her face again at the memory of her father. Her lips pursed tightly for a second, all thoughts of retribution falling to the backburner. Dave's suspended hand dropped lightly onto her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. Sniffing, she once again regained her composure with lightning speed. "Ok. You've made your point. He gets to live, provided he...you know, doesn't die. But under one condition.."

"What's that?" Dave smiled.

"You were right when you said he has no chance of fighting back. But when he does, he's fair game."

"As long as he's still actually a villain and stuff."

"Of course."

"And you can injure him, not kill him."

Her smile became wider. "That's your thing. You're Spidey, remember? I'm Frank Castle."

 

Dave hung the phone up on the black receiver and heard his change shuffle through the slot on the payphone. Emergency services were on their way. He had convinced Hit Girl to keep a lookout while he carried Red Mist down to the street, placing his limp body on an empty bus bench. He had made the call to 911 from a payphone down the street, informing the operator that a strange boy in costume seemed to be suffering from some kind of overdose. He figured the ambulance would be there in double-time. People dying in public always seemed to be a higher priority than when they were safely hidden from said public's view.

Stepping out of the glass booth, he began jogging lightly back to the base, his muscles exhausted and begging for a break. Almost there. He glanced back at Red Mist on the bench, tranquil except for a slight nodding of his head. It had been taking a risk, getting him even more stoned before Hit Girl came in. Honestly, he hadn't been sure if introducing yet another dose of drugs would have killed the other boy. He only knew that if she had seen what he had seen earlier - another grab at the knife or a strange comment about blood play - the leather-clad villain wouldn't have stood a chance. Keeping him as sedated as possible was the best way to go, not to mention that if Hit Girl had managed to come at him in full force with intentions to kill, it was a much more humane way to die.

He thought again of the weird comment Red Mist had made earlier - I like watching you bleed. It had been plucking at his mind since he had first heard it uttered. Surely that had been caused by all those chemicals in his system. No way that the boy who he had "fought crime" with and danced to Gnarls Barkley in the Mist Mobile was that sadistic. The knife he had grabbed and subsequently threatened Dave with; the aggressive, biting kiss; there had to be a reason. Drugs make you do weird things, I guess. He stopped and frowned, amending his thought. Being around people on drugs also makes you do weird things. "I can't believe I kissed a guy...three times." Still though, all things considered, it hadn't been half bad. He tossed this reflection into the pile of "things to never tell Katie". 

 

Epilogue   
The first thing Chris heard when he woke up was a rhythmic beeping sound, mechanical and unfeeling. Opening his eyes slowly, the view of a hospital room blurrily came into focus. He felt impossibly tired. His whole body ached. His head stung. His throat burned. For a few long seconds, a massive confusion overcame him until a number of vague memories drifted across his mind. Nothing really telling, they mostly consisted of just a series of chopped up images. He couldn't even remember living them, at least for the most part.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his throat randomly raw. “What the hell?” Ok, don't panic. Let's try to put this shit together... He could remember an apartment. In particular, a couch in an apartment. For some reason, the couch was the clearest memory he had. Nothing else came to mind, no memories of the room itself. Except that there had been something green...something... wait a minute, was it Kick Ass he was remembering? Darting upright up in the hospital bed, one of the multitudes of cords attached to his chest pulling off in the process. The beeping machine suddenly ceased its charade of sounds and instead issued a long, drawn out tone. Chris barely even noticed, his mind otherwise occupied. Kick Ass had been there. He was pretty sure of that much. Not knowing what to make of the hazy memory, he felt his breath speed up. Was that from fear or excitement?

Suddenly the door to his room burst open and a number of nurses piled in, crowding around his bed. One of them was wheeling a cart. “Lay back down,” the nurse closest to him firmly instructed. Taking a second to assess the situation, she relaxed. “He’s just pulled out a cable, it’s fine,” she informed the others. She fished the little wire from off the bed and prepared it to go back onto his chest. Seeing that there was no longer a crisis, the other two nurses silently left, keeping the door standing open. 

Chris slowly sunk back onto the mattress, allowing the nurse to re-affix the electrode pad under the collar of his hospital gown. "Why am I here?" he half-whispered, half-rasped to her, his voice scratching.

"Well, let me see here." The nurse finished fastening the instrument and, satisfied that the machine was once again beeping in its normal rhythm, grabbed a clipboard hanging from the foot of the bed. She looked it over. "Says here you were admitted for an overdose of...various substances. You had your stomach pumped." 

"Wait, what?" Not that he was any stranger to "various substances", he liked weed as much as the next stoner, but an overdose? Wasn't that impossible? It didn't really make sense, but then again nothing was particularly making sense at the moment anyway. Not thinking to ask what drugs they had yanked from his stomach earlier, he instead just sat there, on that uncomfortably firm hospital bed, sporting a confused expression. 

"I was on a different shift when you came in," the nurse explained. "You can talk to the doctor when he comes back." She set the clipboard back in its place and turned to leave. "Try not to pull out any more electrodes while I'm gone." Her tone had an edge to it; was that slight callousness he heard in her voice? Well, she was sure treating him like a drug addict, at least. Either that, or there was something she wasn't telling him. Chris watched her leave, no doubt wanting to get away as fast as possible from this strange little freak who had been admitted in a superhero costume.

Leaning his head back on the pillow, Chris considered the thought that Kick Ass had drugged him. Not really his style, but it was possible, wasn't it? Sure, it was possible. He focused on the hazy memory of Kick Ass and that strange couch again, squinting his eyes as if it would help. There had to be something else... Staring up at the ceiling, the clock ticked on as he focused, growing increasingly frustrated with the inability of the memory to just come. Nothing. By the time the doctor walked into the room to check on his condition, he had unconsciously bitten a gash into his bottom lip from aggravation. It hadn't been until the doctor had mentioned his self-inflicted wound that something else popped into his memory. The doctor spouted off something about Chris' condition and how he was lucky to have gotten to the ER in time, but it fell on deaf ears. Somewhere in the back of Chris' mind, a stream of blood gushed out of split lips. Kick Ass' lips. Chris smiled. That was more like it. 

But that wasn't the only thing he remembered. Somewhere, under the muddled fragments of pieced recollections, he also remembered kissing those bloody lips. Equally disturbed and aroused, he rolled this new information around in his mind. Had Kick Ass been trying to take advantage of him or had he been taking advantage of Kick Ass? Either way, it both horrified and thrilled him.

The rest of the afternoon passed with Chris fixating on the memory. Nurses came in, nurses left, tests were run...he no longer cared. Staring at white, sterilized ceiling tiles, his mind was otherwise gone. Fixation became fascination became obsession. A creeping anger was rising inside him, forming into a cohesive cloud of rage. At the same time, the romantic infatuation he had felt for the other boy was multiplying by the minute. Did he want to enact a bloody and slow revenge or did he want to drag the other boy back to his bed as quickly as possible? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that somehow, he was going to find Kick Ass again. He needed to find him again. And through whatever means possible, he was going to see blood. Something real and tangible this time, something that he would have no problem remembering. Rupture, shatter, crack, fracture. Whatever it took. Because whether his intentions were those of vengeance or of zealous desire, that nerdy boy in the green wetsuit was too beautiful not to break.

 

On opposite sides of the city, two individuals reflected on each other. Neither one could put a finger on exactly how they felt about the other; the contradictory emotions in each of them had become a rat's nest of paradoxical incongruities. Dave, finally able to shed his costume and return to a supposedly less complicated life, was nonetheless disturbed that he didn't feel any less complicated. The costume sat, wrinkled, on his bed but all the concerns and suspicions of Kick Ass remained in his head. Was he angry or concerned toward Red Mist? It was impossible to tell, and that annoyed him to an extreme. Sighing, he slipped the costume over a hanger and shoved it into the back of his closet, planning on spending the next several hours watching mindless TV to get his thoughts off the subject.

 

Back in the hospital, Chris...no, Red Mist...had no such desire to clear his head. Plots and schemes filled his head as he planned the future actions he would take when released. He looked out the window, a blank look in his eyes and a tilted smirk on his face. Quietly, he began to speak, his voice finally free of the slur that had plagued him throughout the previous night. "Run, little superhero, while you still can. Because I think I love you, and I think I hate you, and I'm gonna enjoy hunting you down."


End file.
